Remember Rain?

So, you might have noticed that we’ve achieved rain. Yay.

Well, Yay-ish.

We needed rain. I’m thankful we got it. Now, based on previous experience, I can’t help but wonder when –and IF—it will stop.

Yes, I know, I’m hard to please. Too hot, too dry, too little rain, too much rain, White Christmas but not in my driveway, yada yada yada.

Perhaps it would help if I made a list of all the positive things about rain?  Top Ten Things about Rain: 1) An effective dust/fire suppression system. 2) It’s refreshing. 3) Rain is Nature’s watering system. 4) Mud puddles meet yellow rubber boots. 5) Rainbows. 6) Help, I’m running out of positive thoughts. 7) Strong umbrella sales. 8) Did I already say Rainbows? 9) Valid reason to stay indoors a read a good book. Or even a mediocre book. Or Facebook. Whatever, I’m not going out in that. 10) Rainbows.

I’m confident that is the definitive list of positive things about rain, all ten of them—well, ten-ish. This is turning out to be one of the shorter things I’ve written and I blame it all on rain. It’s hardly my fault I can’t think of more nice things to say about precipitation. If there were more nice things to say about rain, trust me, I’d say them.

A friend suggested to me that I might like rain more if I thought that elk hated it, and I’ll admit the thought of elk being all glum and depressed because they were getting damp does appeal to me. I’m very vindictive like that. Still, I find it difficult to get behind that notion for two reasons: A) someone is bound to suggest a similar corollary to snow and I’m not falling for that nonsense and B) elk have often used rain as cover to defeat my scarecrow sprinklers. After all, what’s one more blast of cold water when you’re already soaked?

But, in the meantime, I DID think of One More Good Thing About Rain: 11) the sound of rain on a tin roof.

And there you have it: Rain, the Definitive List of Positive Attributes.

You’re welcome.

Liminal

The sun rises, the sun sets, the world revolves around the sun. Seasons come. Seasons go. We plant a seed, nurture a sprout, tend our gardens. For many, Harvest is not the only goal; the journey has been as important as the produce. 

Before Elk

Gardening is a balm for the soul, a way to connect with nature, to commune with the Creator. Gardening not only takes us back to our roots (Please note: all puns are included at no additional charge, enjoy!) we can also impact the future. Planting a garden is an act of faith. Planting a tree is a dream for the future; Hope, incased in bark and branch.

Spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter. Each season has its own delights, carries its own challenges. But every gardener knows there are more than four seasons. There are the seasons that exist, in-between the big four; liminal seasons that are neither fish nor fowl. First Thaw, Indian Summer, those not yet one, not quite another.

The dictionary defines liminal as a threshold, the act of crossing over but not yet arriving. Every morning I wake to a garden that looks different than the one I went to bed accepting. Elk come in the night and further ravage what I thought was safe. I find myself living on the threshold between rage and despair. The liminal razor’s edge.

After Elk

This week alone, the elk have come up my sidewalk, up to my front porch and eaten the begonias I had sheltered there. Begonias. They don’t even LIKE begonias. This morning I awake to find they have come up on the back deck and eaten my pots, up-ending and uprooting them. These pots---mind you—are sitting out of reach from the lawn. These pots have been my solace from the destruction of my flower beds in mid-July. Well, I tell myself, at least you have your flower pots. Except, no---I don’t. The wretched beasts have come up ON MY DECK to destroy my hard work, to trash my great pleasure, to annihilate my peace.

So, I am liminal, caught between rage and despair. It’s small comfort to remind myself that I garden to connect with nature and by golly, nothing says nature like survival of the fittest. It’s fight or flight time. Stay tuned.

Song of Fire and (Liquid) Ice

Walked out early this morning into a face full of hot wind and a yard full of smoke. For one frightening moment, I looked to the east, expecting to see a towering wall of flame and ash, but all the trees were still green. Well, green-ish. We need a break from the heat and a good rain shower. At least on this end of the country.

We live in interesting times, as the old Chinese curse goes. One third of the United States is on fire, one third is under water and the other third wants to argue about if humans impact their environment. (Note to the Mathematicians/Scientists/Sticklers for Fact among you: all statistics/ratios/data I cite will totally be made up on the spot and shouldn’t be considered based on any hard data other than how I feel at this moment in time. It’s entirely possible there is yet a third portion of the US that is watching cat videos on the internet and doesn’t care that I must now go back and redo all my math because even I know that you can’t have four thirds of a single whole. Thanks a lot, video watchers.)

Because I grew up in a small town, it came as no surprise to me that neighbor would help neighbor when the water came for Houston. It’s what neighbors do. I am reminded of the famous quote from Mr. Rodgers’ mother who said, “In times of trouble, instead of despairing, we should look for the helpers.”

Look for those running towards the problem, not away.

Instead of feeling overwhelmed by the problems facing our neighbors, our country, ourselves---ask “what can I do?” and then . . . do that thing. Small kindnesses can be a quiet form of heroism. Small monetary donations can add up. Individual snowflakes can add up to a blizzard. We can all do something to make it better, to mitigate suffering.

Good neighbors give me hope.

Go, Good Neighbors, go!

Mixed Feelings

Summer.

I’m kind of over it.

Shocking, I know, and selfish. Since the elk have come in and eaten every last flower in my flowerbeds and have started in on the flowerpots ON MY DECK I’m thinking fall thoughts. Bring on the pumpkin scented candles and the tulip bulbs and let’s DO this thing!

Selfish.

Also crazy; as soon the unrelenting rain will return and after about two days of that I’ll be over rain and dreading the snowier than usual forecast. Dreading; because shoveling my driveway is only fun the first time. And by fun I mean not really.

So let’s recap: I’m tired of Summer, Fall is too rainy and Winter snow is beautiful only in theory, and not at all beautiful in the shoveling. Which only leaves us with Spring.

It’s clear to me what I need to do. Certainly not any of the gardening chores I’ve put off all summer: edging, weeding, spreading bark, thinning perennials. What I really need to do is buy a whole bushel of daffodil bulbs and plant them everywhere. Bring on the bulb buying!

Think how pretty that will look in the spring, when the snow finally melts and I step outside and cast my eye over all the daffodils that aren’t blooming because I missed the small window of opportunity between cool, frosty nights and frozen ground to actually plant them. Probably because I was watching the Seahawks---hopefully they were winning--- since I gave up my window to plant 194 bulbs and stayed put through the third quarter. (In this version of events, the ‘Hawks would have spent some serious money on a O-Line and kept the defense strong.) So at least I wasted the 194 bulbs I haven’t even bought yet for a good reason.

See? I can do optimism.

Go Hawks!